There are cold angels among the glass jars and blurry elixirs of the sick-room, a cozy cocoon and ornate canopy bed overlooking the paint horses in the dreary fog and bright tulips, the lamp-light navigating and cruel sunrise shards peaking over the ships in the harbor, an opaque window and cathedral of burnt bricks and elaborate stonework, a brittle bundle of sticks, branching out within the green figs and winter mulch of a cobblestone pathway, the clock tower and the old library and fireplace mosaic, street vendors calling down the day, the sleeping black hound by the permanent flames, a gloved lilac hand, the poisoned reflections of lifeless eyes on the antique canvas.